PW013
by Sixth Limb of Sephiroth
Summary: Let me just be the first to say...welcome. We've been expecting you and I do hope you stay with us. We've many wonderful plans in store...'


_To and from Sixth: So... This came to me while I was reading/skimming through a recent RE piece written up by...something Knight. I forget their penname. Ar-something Knight. But anyways... Naturally, this is quite iffy. But that's the sort of thing I go for without even trying. Thus, it's kismet. It's what I do.  
_

_Maybe after this, I'll actually be able to write something really serious. Especially for living things.  
_

_Once again, thanks to anybody who bothers reading. Disclaimer here, cheerio there._

* * *

He scratched so hard at his ear that his little nails came back with blood.

Standing at his bedroom door, he listened past the angry pulse in his head in hope of a racket, a curse, a laugh, anything that meant he wasn't alone. He waited and he listened. He glanced back at the window, with its drawn curtains weakly filtering the dirty light of Saturday morning.

It was supposed to be loud. There was supposed to be noise. It wasn't Saturday morning without it. His parents never failed to cause that contented ruckus typical of home, of a new day, another day, another weekend. The fight for the television, the clatter of pots and pans, the bad words spilt in the coffee and broken with the eggs. The open and shut of his father's battered, old briefcase. The flip flop of his mother's house-worn sandals. They never failed to make noise, not once, not while he was there.

Until now.

His ear burned hotter and hotter, the bloody throb worsening to the point that it trickled down his shoulder like oil.

He never liked the quiet, had never grown accustomed. Silence snapped his nerves like the wind slowly ripping apart the old tree outside his window.

One hand fumbled for the black and blue sports watch lying on his nightstand. With a quiet groan, he jabbed it against his stinging ear, finding solace in the faint ticking of its tiny machinery. But it wouldn't be enough, not while everything around him seemed stuck in time, or to vanish entirely. Where were his parents if they weren't home, where he knew they'd never leave him alone?

His other hand reached for the doorknob and urged a twist out of it.

The door squeaked and crept open slightly.

Nothing.

Where were they? They could pick up a sound miles away, like bloodhounds made for the hunt of clamor and clang. They would have come running, wondering out loud, "What's happening today, champ?"

But now…nothing.

He wedged his fingers into the crack of the door and pulled it towards him.

He stared down the hall draped in darkness.

And the black stalks that hovered there.

Stalks with peppermints pinned to their chests. No, umbrellas, tiny ones. And between them, a ghost, without a head in sight.

He dropped his bloodied watch and gawked, croaking quietly in awe. His wide, blue eyes lolled as black hands grabbed him and drew him into their small, towering circle. One had him by the neck, the others by his shoulders and arms, yet another pinning him with a nasty beam of yellow light.

"Gh…"

"Sedate him, now."

"Mom…"

A white square of stink flew down over his nose and mouth, knifing him through every orifice in his face. He thrashed uncontrollably, smacking at the arms that gripped him like taut iron chains. But the more he fought, the tighter they held him until he started to rise. He rose right off his bare feet, floating. Hanging. Like a chicken in a butcher shop. No flying, not even a frenzied flutter to freedom, but hanging. He was going to die. Or he was already dead, he knew it. The moment the noise stopped, life shattered and fell all around him. Without a sound.

"Dr. Wesker."

"Take him," the ghost had said, its headless head blinking hazard lights upon him.

"Dad?!"

"And the bodies?"

"I'm sure Marcus would love a gift or two."

"Yessir."

His eyes watered so much, he couldn't keep them open anymore. And to hold them shut made him feel as though sand wet with alcohol had been driven under his lids. His nose bloated with fire, his throat clotted with heavy, knifelike smoke. The noise was leaving him, even his own voice that scratched for dear life out of his seizing throat, shrieking for his parents. No, they'd never leave him behind. They wouldn't abandon him to be killed like this, they wouldn't. They were his parents, his guardians.

They were everything that held him up. And now, he'd fall because of them, because of them not being there when he needed them most.

At least they kept the carpet nice and clean to fall on— his mother and father were sticklers for neatness, always smelling of sanitation along the way. When he slipped from the black stalks' hands, the plush shag retained a pleasant hum of earth as he connected with it, knees first, chest, then head. While he'd never hear nor see his parents again, this would surely soothe him on the way to dying.

The quiet hum soothed him.

---

* * *

---

"…up…my…child…"

"…Dad…?"

"Wake up, wake up, it's time to wake up."

As his eyes struggled past a heavy film of sleep and nausea, a blinding white saucer slipped down and loomed low above him. The headless ghost merged with it at the shoulders, becoming bigger than anything he hoped never to meet. He groaned and squirmed, trying with weak fists to shield his view from the glare.

"Now, now, I see the fright in those sweet and impressionable, young eyes. But there's nothing to be afraid of. Today's a new day for you…"

"…no."

"'No', hmm? Why, I'll have you know that you've been selected. For what, you might ask? A calling, a calling greater than anything you'd ever accomplish if we left you to…waste away in mediocrity."

"Medi…"

The ghost's saucer head jiggled for a second as its body moved closer, placing what felt like a hand on his forehead. It was gentle, but cool and rubbery like a balloon, just like his mother's hands after sweeping through a load of dirty dishes. Had the ghost been doing the same? No, no, he couldn't think of that. That was something only his mother did, what other mothers did. This was a bad thing, trying to trick him.

"Is the light that bright for you? Here, then, try these on for size. They're tinted. I did it myself."

Those hazard lights from before broke off the ghost and plunged down onto his face, in too slow motion that still took him by surprise.

Everything turned dark after that, dark as maple syrup smeared over his eyeballs. But he could still see. What did it do?

They were only glasses. Clunky and cold.

"There you are. Now, don't you look like a big man, yes, it's very fitting."

And the ghost suddenly faded from a big, white saucer-head to a little, squinty-eyed man, his hair swept back in lots of long, dark little waves. He looked like his father but shrunken down so he couldn't look as mean if he wanted. And his eyes were the flattest lines, like some weird creature who spent most its life underground. In the dark.

The man wasn't a ghost anymore, wasn't so scary without the big lights and dark glasses.

Until he pulled out a needle.

His little body jerked forward hard, but his head caught on something he never felt was there after waking up. They had to be the hands of the dark stalks that had snatched him up. Yet, he saw nothing but this man.

"Now…as I said, there's nothing to be afraid of. And it's useless to struggle although it would certainly help things along. Get the blood pumping, make it easier, faster, for chemical agents to circulate. This will only take a moment, my child."

This man kept calling him 'his child', but he knew. He knew this wasn't his father, not in any way whatsoever.

"Given your youth, only a minor intoxicant of sorts is allowed… You're impressionable. The conversion will be incredibly simple. It's very necessary, you'll see. We need to instill you, elevate you, with a new outlook on life for the times to come. It won't hurt, very much. With time, you'll see everything as we do…and more."

"W-wait."

"You'll need a new name, as well. I think I'll call you Number 13. Too formal? Too technical? Hm. How about…Albert, then? You look like an Albert, forget what your name was before now. Spencer always had a penchant for names with regal origins. Why, Number 7's is…"

"WAIT!"

"With our guidance, you'll be as kings. Or queens. Accept and walk the path we're to pave for you. Or else, you'll never be anything more than a speck on a window waiting to be swept away. Why, that's virtually nothing-"

"Shut up!"

"We're your future now. Accept it and the world will soon be handed to you on a silver platter. You'll better understand after the proper conditioning, maturity, education and so on, of course. We can give you everything."

The needle was like a shadow from behind the syrupy glasses. It almost seemed to hum as it closed in on him, humming as a bee would, hellbent. Killer. But, for once in his life, this noise he didn't want to hear. He didn't want to hear a thing. It didn't matter if he didn't understand. The world, why would he ever want the world? Why would he want everything, or anything from this man?

The shadow was so big now, big enough to leave a gaping hole in his chest if it touched him.

It was a spear, a gigantic black spear. And it planned on gutting him and spilling everything in his lap. No trouble to it.

It was a dream, all a dream. A nightmare.

"S, stop!"

"Let me just be the first to say…welcome to Umbrella. We've been expecting you, Albert, and I do hope you stay with us. We've many wonderful plans in store…"


End file.
